


The right kind of ridiculous

by TheFierceBeast, VioletSmith



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Anal Fingering, Bottom Crowley, Crobby - Freeform, Crossdressing, Crossdressing Crowley, Crossdressing Kink, Crowley in panties, Established Relationship, Hand & Finger Kink, M/M, POV Bobby, Panties, Protective Bobby, Roleplay, Semi-Public Sex, Slow Burn, Teasing, Top Bobby, Vehicular Sex, hot bear on bear action, let's make that a searchable tag, nope? just us then?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-17
Updated: 2016-10-17
Packaged: 2018-08-23 00:34:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,600
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8306998
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheFierceBeast/pseuds/TheFierceBeast, https://archiveofourown.org/users/VioletSmith/pseuds/VioletSmith
Summary: "Jesus - crap, Crowley! How many times?" The truck veers as Bobby wrestles with the wheel, righting it again on the mercifully deserted back-road. That'd be an anticlimactic way to go, all things considered. In the passenger seat, Crowley tuts amicably and crosses his legs."You want to watch that. Can't afford any more points on your licence. And I'll bet you're not exactly within the limit either.""Yeah? Well you know what you can ki-" Bobby glances at the man at his side and for a long second nearly loses control of the wheel again. "Crowley, what in Hell are you wearin'?"Crowley appears late one night in Bobby's truck dressed in silky knickers and Bobby decides it would just be rude not to take him to a deserted forest clearing and show his appreciation.





	

"Jesus - crap, Crowley! How many times?" The truck veers as Bobby wrestles with the wheel, righting it again on the mercifully deserted back-road. That'd be an anticlimactic way to go, all things considered. In the passenger seat, Crowley tuts amicably and crosses his legs.  
"You want to watch that. Can't afford any more points on your licence. And I'll bet you're not exactly within the limit either."  
"Yeah? Well you know what you can ki-" Bobby glances at the man at his side and for a long second nearly loses control of the wheel again. "Crowley, what in Hell are you wearin'?"

  
Crowley can't seem to help grinning at that; a self-satisfied little grin that pretends at shyness while really being no such thing. "Oh, this?" he says, nonchalantly, smoothing imaginary creases from the sleek black pencil skirt that hugs his shapely thighs. "Do you like it?"  
"On Raquel Welch maybe." Bobby swallows, knuckles whiting against the wheel, eyes fixed on the road ahead. "What're you playin' at?" He can't help it: he has to sneak another glance. Crowley tilts his head and re-crosses his legs: whisper of silk beneath the rumble of tyres on highway and Bobby can swear he glimpses sheer black stockings. He grits his teeth and tries his best to focus back ahead.

  
Crowley lounges against the headrest, and the top of his blouse is unbuttoned enough for shadowy chest hair to peek through. "Who says I'm playing at anything. Can't a girl dress up a bit now and then?" he asks, and Crowley is never innocent but he's making a good attempt at acting it. He licks his lips. Even in the dim light, they look red.  
Bobby narrows his eyes. "Sure a _girl_ can dress up now and then. Damn certain she's usually got an agenda though, if my experience got anything to say about it." Crowley lowers his lashes. Smiles, coyly. He looks ridiculous. Grotesque. Bizarrely hot in an unsettling way that's already got Bobby fidgeting half-hard in his jeans. How he's ever come to this - this whatever it is - with the King of the Crossroads is a little beyond him, but... He risks another glance. Is he wearing underwear underneath all that? Which is worse, yes or no? "Now, it's been a long day and my only evenin’ plans were home, beer and shower, so if there's somewhere I can drop you off?"  
Crowley shifts on the seat, thighs rubbing together like he can't sit still, and he bites his lower lip as he gazes over at Bobby. "I really think an outfit like this would be wasted round the house. Don't you?"  
"What, you wanna go out for dinner dressed like that?" It comes out suitably sarcastic, but oh heck, it shouldn't feel so enticingly dirty. "I know a nice little country bar not far, if you're lookin’ to pick up some company. Well, I say 'nice'... They got locks on the bathroom stalls." The road before them winds out like nothing exists beyond the ribbon of Tarmac illuminated by the truck's headlights. Darkness, stretching off side to side, into the brush and beyond that, wasteland. Places a person could get lost. Places a fella could park up and kill the lights and not be bothered for a long while...  
"Don't you want to show me off?" Crowley asks, meeting Bobby's brief gaze and fluttering his eyelashes. He trails a ridiculously big hand down the front of the blouse that clings, watery-soft, to his chest. "All dressed up and nowhere to go. Such a shame."  
Bobby can't help the little bark of laughter that makes its way out at the thought of it. Escorting Crowley, all dolled up like Meg Ryan or somebody, into one of his local haunts. "Don't reckon any establishment round here is quite up to your exacting standard." He casts another narrow-eyed glance: he really, _really_ wants a proper look at what the heck the idiot is wearing; purely through curiosity's sake, mind. "Where'd _you_ like to go?"  
"Anywhere with you, handsome," Crowley simpers, reaching over to squeeze at Bobby's arm as if testing the firmness of the muscle. "I bet you know how to treat a girl just right."  
"Crowley, quit it." There's a slow curl of something unfurling in Bobby's belly. He swallows, kinda uncomfortable, kinda _itchy_. Like he can feel the way the damn demon's looking at him; a prickle across his skin, making the hairs stand on the backs of his arms in a way that's not entirely unpleasant. He clears his throat. Without thinking too much he takes a sharp right at the next turn.

  
Crowley's chuckle is low and rich. "You say that as if you don't like it." He licks his lips, and Bobby feels the slide of Crowley's warm hand down his arm and onto his lap, coming to rest on his thigh. It's such a brazen touch, bold and intimate. Entirely unsafe while driving, but that's never been the sort of thing that bothers Crowley.  
"Dammit," Bobby mutters. Crowley knows him too well. Bobby's still not a hundred percent convinced the King of the Crossroads can't read minds. Useful for the job, that: being able to suss out someone's deepest darkest desires... That hand resting too-close not-close-enough to his crotch feels hot through worn denim. Crowley's touch, always burning, dry, sure. Bobby swallows a rise of excitement. The yard's still a good hour's drive away and if Crowley wants to play, then he may as well give him a good game. The Ford's lights arc across tree trunks as he takes another right, deeper into the woods, not knowing or caring where he's headed so long as it's deserted. "Alright, princess. I'll bite. You wanna go parking?"

  
It's darker here. Crowley's eyes gleam like moonlight on the blade of a knife. "My goodness," he breathes. "Where are you taking me?" He's acting like he's just this side of scared, but Bobby recognises the grin in his voice that he can't quite seem to hide.  
He shakes his head. "Someplace nice an’ quiet where we can get a bit of privacy. That's what you're angling for, right?" As if in response, the road - by now dwindled to more of a track - veers off, terminating in a little tree-lined clearing that can't really be called a parking lot. Bobby kills the engine and the sudden quiet is shocking, just the wind through the trees, hushed enough he can hear his own steady deep breathing, Crowley's calculated hitch of breath from the adjacent seat.  
"You could do anything to me out here," Crowley says, voice all breathy with what might be fear but is more likely just plain old arousal. Certainly his tight skirt is hiding nothing, already distorted at the front. He's breathing deep, almost panting, biting his lower lip: he pulls his hand away from Bobby's thigh and instead touches his own throat, as if he can't help it - though Bobby knows each move the demon makes is deliberate, calculated and he hates himself a little for how easy it gets to him. Turns him on. His brows draw down in a frown at the thought as he turns towards the passenger side. Crowley draws a little ways further away (and Bobby is absolutely not grateful for the fact the truck’s got a bench seat rather than buckets right now, he isn't) pressing himself coyly against the door. It should be funny. It's not. Bobby knows, here and now with complete certainty, he'll give Crowley exactly what he wants. Just like he always does. "Couldn't I just?" Crowley actually flinches as Bobby slides closer along the seat, and if that doesn't just make him feel like a prize asshole, even as he knows his 'date' could rip him ten dozen new ones with a bat of his stupid pretty eyelashes. "Good job I'm a gentleman then, ain't it?"  
Crowley's breath hitches again, his chest beneath the buttery soft fabric of the thin blouse rising and falling with it. A man's chest, unmistakeably, and yet... yet somehow it doesn’t look at silly as Bobby would've expected it to. "Are you, now?" Crowley purrs, and Bobby can't help but notice how his legs uncross at Bobby's approach, the whisper of black stockings under the skirt.  
"If you want me to be." He catches one of Crowley's hands in his own, brings it up to his mouth to brush his lips across Crowley's knuckles in a kiss. His other hand braces on the seat, accidentally close to one stocking-clad knee, his thumb brushing lightly just where the hem of that tight skirt ends.  
Crowley presses still further back against the door and looks up at Bobby from under dark lashes. "Of course I do." The corners of his mouth crinkle, it's almost a smile. "I'm a good girl."

  
_Sweet lord_. He looks about as far from good as Bobby's ever seen him, and that's saying something. The curve of his thighs in that tight little tailored skirt is some new kind of enticing, all ripe and straining the seams: Bobby's palms practically itch to touch. He musters a lazy smile. Rests one arm across the seat back, elbow bent and temple resting against his hand. "So what do good girls do for kicks, then, Sandra Dee?"  
"Go out driving with gentlemen like you," Crowley replies smoothly. He runs his eyes down Bobby's body, and Bobby can _feel_ the heat in that gaze. The darkness of the woods seems to press in on them from all sides, to curtain them from reality. It feels like nowhere else on earth could be as private as this, as isolated, for all the world like it's not a public place where anyone could happen across them.  
Bobby shivers, sudden. That gaze on him, making the world outside the cab of the truck seem colder. He leans a little closer. It's dark, cosy, moonlit, but in the dim little halo of the overhead light Crowley's smoky eyes flash briefly as red as his lips. "Well, seems to me like we're not driving any more. You sure you're not scared of the dark?"  
"Why?" Crowley instantly asks, his eyes widening, shifting closer to where Bobby looms over him. He lowers his voice to barely more than a whisper. "Do you think there might be... monsters?"  
"I'm pretty damn sure there is." Bobby murmurs back. "Don't you worry though. I got a shotgun full o' salt for any critter that gets too frisky." He raises an eyebrow at the monster lounging beneath him.  
"How brave of you," Crowley replies earnestly, placing a hand on Bobby's broad chest. "So heroic." They're close enough now that Bobby can smell the familiar, expensive, smoky scent of him; like cigars and cologne and fancy alcohol.  
"Regular knight in shining armour, ain't I?" His breath stirs Crowley's hair. Crowley smells like something Bobby'd like to taste. It makes Bobby want to bury his face in the crook of his neck. "You smell good."  
Crowley's smile turns lascivious. A little wicked. "Good enough to eat?" he asks, innocently.  
"Mmm." Bobby's not sure if it's pushing the rules of this game to lean in and nose at Crowley's neck, breathe in that scent. He can't believe he's gonna ask permission, but he is. "Can I kiss you?"  
"Well I don't know," Crowley demurs, eyes lowered, hands fussing with the hem of his skirt. "I suppose this isn't strictly our first date, is it? Perhaps I could be persuaded to allow it."

  
Bobby's dick throbs; reminds him where his brain's apparently vacated to. He exhales, impatient: with the goading infernal bastard next to him, but mostly with himself. He should put his foot down, turn the keys in the ignition and start off for home again like a rational adult. Except apparently tonight he's a horny college kid on a second date again and damn Crowley for being able to play him like a trick deck of cards: damn him and bless him. "You gonna make me propose, sweetheart?" The skin just millimetres from Bobby's lips has no right to be that warm, to look so soft. "You do look real pretty tonight."  
"Do I?" Crowley manages to make the question sound genuine, as if he really has no idea just how sinful he looks in this get up. He tilts his head up, leans in to Bobby, _inviting_.  
"Yeah." Bobby just about breathes the word, as eloquent as he can be right now as he closes the distance between them, too eager, slicks their mouths together with a groan of relief. The stiff brush of Crowley's beard is all at odds with his soft, expert lips, the perfume taste of lipstick: it's been a while since Bobby's had that. It's not a usual Crowley kiss. Sweeter, slower, more yielding... It's instinct; Bobby can't help it, pressing him harder against the seat, slipping an arm around his cinched waist, gathering him up. He feels like a dream. All melting in Bobby's arms. Bobby could almost forget that Crowley never gives in, never does anything accidentally, because tonight he feels dizzyingly like surrender and oh god, Bobby suddenly wants him like this. Those sweet lips... His tongue is doing things to Bobby's that a good girl definitely doesn't know how to do. He imagines that painted mouth wrapped around his dick and can't hold in another low moan.

  
"Oh," Crowley exhales, clutching at Bobby's shoulders, moaning breathily into his mouth. He's squirming, almost struggling weakly; acting as if he's overwhelmed, maybe, or maybe as if he's trying to wriggle out of his clothing somehow. The fabric is silky under Bobby's hands. He feels like the wrong move might tear it. He might spend most of his time up to his wrists in auto guts in the yard, or chicken guts for magic, but he likes to think he keeps his hands nice, his nails always clean. Now though, they feel clumsy, huge and rough, catching on every inch of filmy silk as he runs a palm down Crowley's calf. He's got nice legs. Shapely. The dark nap of hair flattened beneath the sheer stretch somehow makes Bobby's pulse quicken even further. It feels like he could ruin those stockings just by touching, ruin _him_ \- he looks back up, gazes at Crowley's throat, all pale and soft below the edge of dark stubble, and his mouth waters. Imagine him, ladders in his stockings, all mussed up from a bit of rough handling. Bobby closes his eyes. It doesn't help: memories of Crowley, flushed and lost in the throes immediately crowd into his mind. When he opens his eyes again he's looking right into the demon's firelight gaze, golden and dangerous as a lion's. Crowley's stockings are the old fashioned kind. There's a thin black seam that runs up the back of them, Bobby can feel the bump of it under his palms as he squeezes Crowley's thighs. "You're so _big_ ," Crowley murmurs appreciatively, bringing his arms up around Bobby's neck. _Speak for yourself_ Bobby thinks, but holds his tongue. He knows what Crowley's packing underneath that prim skirt - and he curses him mentally for probably giving him another goddamn kink, the dirty little bastard. It's an easy manoeuvre to pull him round, swing his demurely crossed legs across Bobby's knees so he's sitting sideways across his lap. Crowley purrs appreciatively at that and Bobby thinks maybe he's getting the hang of this game now. "I bet you bring all the girls out here," Crowley says, settling on Bobby's lap with perhaps just a little more wriggle than is strictly necessary. His heels are glinting in the dark - shiny and black, clicking together when he moves. He looks absurd. He looks glorious. Bobby wants to _wreck_ him.

  
"Jealous, sweetheart?" Bobby murmurs against his cheek. Crowley squirms again; there's no way he can't feel how hard Bobby is, pressing up against the curve of his ass. He slides a palm down Crowley's leg again, hand gripping an ankle just above the cute little strap of one shoe and Crowley's breath catches in his throat. "Should I be?" He flexes his leg as if testing Bobby's strength, trying to free himself from that grip. Bobby doesn't let him go. He knows, rationally, that Crowley could overpower him with little more than a thought. But it's easy to get caught up in the game, in the way Crowley's eyelashes flutter like moth wings, the way he grasps handfuls of Bobby's shirt like he doesn't want to let go.  
"Nah." Bobby walks fingers up Crowley's sleek leg, toying again at the hem of his skirt. He tilts his head, rubbing his cheek against Crowley's whispering hot in his ear. "None of ‘em can hold a candle to you." His lips brush Crowley's again, tongue flicking, slow and wet. His other hand gentle as you like at the back of Crowley's neck. Crowley's kisses are so sweet tonight that it aches. Soft lipped and gentle, almost timid, until his tongue touches Bobby's and he moans, suddenly wanton, open-mouthed and sloppy, and Bobby chooses this moment to sneak a hand under his skirt. Crowley makes a high pitched sound in the back of his throat and presses his thighs together. Bobby firmly, patiently works his hand between them - petting Crowley, shushing him like an unruly horse that's yet to be fully broken. Feels the garters holding up his stockings. The lush softness of lace. His guts do a flip, slow and excited. The thrill of surprise. That little pencil skirt is too tight to have much room to manoeuvre, but it's enough that he can run the tip of one finger right along the deep lace top of one stocking, brush the backs of his knuckles against the silk-covered bulge between Crowley's thighs. Crowley's fingers tighten on his collar; he gasps against Bobby's lips, kisses rhythmic now like the fight's gone out of him. "Second base. Whaddaya say, princess? Just say the word an' I'll stop."  
Crowley _mewls_ at the word 'princess', lips slack against Bobby's, lipstick smudged and messy. "Please," he pants, and Bobby isn't sure whether he's asking for more or less. His thighs part, though. Still restrained by the skirt, but as far apart as Crowley can manage. He's so warm here, between his legs. Bobby wants to bury his face there, to taste that warmth. It's enough to send him stupid, every ounce of sense he has rushing south. He slips his exploring hand out, reluctantly, and Crowley makes a noise that's protesting enough to almost break character: Bobby smiles against his neck. Works both hands round to try and hitch his skirt up, but the damn thing's too fitted, hugging every inch of curves so that now he knows to look, Bobby can see the faint outline of garter straps beneath the sleek fabric. He swallows, hard. Really wants to see that uncovered. "How'd you even get into this thing? You spray it on?"  
Biting his lip to hide a smile, Crowley takes Bobby's hands and brings them up round his waist to the back of the skirt. "Zip," he murmurs. "Right here."

Bobby's fingers feel big and clumsy on the tiny metal zipper. They shake as he inches it down. Crowley lifts his hips, sinuous, lets him ease the skirt off, Bobby's fingers trailing over each inch of skin revealed. "You know, I ain't sure you're such a good girl after all. I think you're lookin' for some action."  
"Oh, I'm good," Crowley insists, fingers tracing the waistband of Bobby's jeans - somehow Bobby can feel the heat of his touch through the denim. "Let me show you how good I can be."  
"Don't be writin' cheques your ass can't cash, now..." Bobby's lips curve into a smile, grazing Crowley's throat. When Crowley wriggles out of his skirt, kicking it neatly into the foot-well, Bobby can't hold in an admiring little groan, one hand palming a sweet handful of ass. The indent of lace digging into the plump pale swell of his thighs, the slight pink mark where his garter strap has shifted: he's like every dessert with whipped cream and Bobby wants to _gorge_ on him, to put his mouth all over those silky knickers, to get his fingers in him and feel him, like wet velvet, clenching around them. "When's your curfew? Don't want you getting in trouble."  
"I'll have to sneak back in through my bedroom window. Can't be seen with a man like you." Crowley puts shyness on like a costume - like the silk panties and the stockings and the ridiculous shoes that he's still wearing. He blushes and looks down, goes to wrap his arms around himself like the nudity makes him self-conscious. It's so easy to get caught up in the illusion. Bobby catches one hand, brings it up to his mouth to kiss the inside of Crowley's wrist. His other hand wanders, index finger tracing up the tight snap of garter strap, dipping just beneath the frill of silk that stretches across one round hip. Gently strokes down the warm dip between his silk-clad ass-cheeks. "Maybe we shouldn't be doin' this outdoors then."  
"I know," Crowley says, voice hitching as Bobby's big hands explore. "Anyone could catch us." His cock, stretching the silk, leaving a damp spot at the tip, twitches. Clearly he's not at all put off by the idea. He makes a soft, obscene little noise in his throat and lets his legs open up just a bit, letting Bobby's fingers in between them.  
It's heady, this feeling. Kinda like being drunk, or maybe more like blood loss. Either could be the case with this creature in his arms. Bobby's fingertips tease, rub little circles through the flimsy soft stuff barely covering Crowley's modesty, and Crowley squirms, makes the kind of noises Bobby's never heard from him before. The kind of noises that make his own dick throb. He can't help it: a quick press of his palm against his own aching crotch, flicking the button of his waistband open to ease the pressure just a little. The fingertips of his other hand, circling, pull those silky panties to one side, stroke hot-soft-damp. Crowley bucks at the first touch of Bobby's fingers, makes a sound like he's choking. Hitches his hips like he's wanting to rub his dick against the stiff denim of Bobby's jeans. "Please," he begs, voice all shivery-soft and low.  
"Please what, darlin'?" Bobby has zero notion of how he's keeping his cool. Best not to overthink the entire situation, or think at all. "You wanna go all the way tonight?" His fingertips keep up the same pace; gentle, insistent, teasing.  
Crowley blinks his big dark eyes up at Bobby. Bites at the plush red-stained pinkness of his lower lip. "Will it hurt?" he asks, innocently.

  
"Jesus, Crowley..." It's out before he can help it, low and desperate. Crowley just widens his eyes, damn him. Bobby drags in a deep breath. It's warm in here. Cold outside. The windows are starting to fog. Crowley rocks his hips, ever so slightly, pressing back against Bobby's fingers, rubbing against the chubby he's been sporting for the past half hour. Bobby closes his eyes, just for a moment. Murmurs, "I'll be gentle. Promise."  
"But you're so big..." Crowley reaches out and runs a hand over Bobby's length for emphasis. He can't seem to help looking greedy. Can't seem to keep the desire from his face when he's touching Bobby.  
"Oh, boy..." Just the slightest touch has got Bobby's head spinning, mouth fuzzy with it. He covers Crowley's hand with his own, encouraging. "What have you done to me? I swear I used to be a sane man." The very tip of one finger presses, slipping inside that tight little hole he's been so patiently teasing. And right enough, Crowley takes it easy. He always does love taking it: even when Crowley's on the bottom - which is more often than not - Bobby can't help feeling like he's the one being fucked. But tonight... Tonight... "God, you're gorgeous."  
"Am I?" Crowley asks - sounding, just for a moment, uncharacteristically unsure. He strains into Bobby's touch, though, pressing himself closer as if trying to force more of that finger inside himself. Greedy. Bobby holds him firmly and doesn't let him take any more than he's giving him, circling gently, massaging barely inside.  
"You know you are." Crowley's breath is coming quicker, shallow and it's like Bobby's pulse is matching its pace. He can feel it, the throb of it, in his head and his belly. In his dick, still straining inside his underwear, Crowley's hand hot over his open fly. "Do you want me, sweetheart? Cos damn, I want you."  
"I always want you," Crowley says, and just for a moment it cuts through the makeup and fancy lingerie and smutty games and feels _real_. Then he's grabbing and squeezing at Bobby's crotch, grinning lasciviously. "So don't keep a girl waiting."  
"That'd just be cruel," Bobby agrees, a low murmur. His hands wander. Thumb rubbing the head of Crowley's cock through the soaked silk of his underwear. "Y’so wet for me already."  
Crowley makes a soft, mewling sort of sound and blushes, as if he can make himself blush on demand. Bobby wonders if he can, if his control of the vessel is that fine. "Can't help it," he whimpers, in a voice that shivers down Bobby's spine like fingers.  
"How's that, princess?" The soft stubble on Crowley's throat prickles Bobby's lips as he whispers against his skin. "You like me fingering you?"  
Crowley makes a wet sound in his throat and closes his eyes. "Yes," he whispers, like he's afraid to admit it out loud. "Please... don't stop."

  
The cab of the Ford is pretty roomy, but it's a slightly awkward fit for two grown men. Still, Crowley sinks elegantly to his back on the worn bench seat as Bobby lowers him down. His face is a picture. Wide-eyed and breathless, uncertain lust painting those oddly delicate features in a manner so convincing that Bobby feels almost guilty for taking advantage. _Taking advantage. Of the King of the Crossroads._   He wonders how his own face looks. Hungry, he can imagine. Stupid with desire.  Crowley's strong, he knows, stocky and capable but he's also kinda little and tonight that's just fanning Bobby's flames something terrible. He leans down, covering him. Kisses his neck again and Crowley moans, clutching at Bobby's shirt, body bowing up into his. It's like he can't keep still. He's squirming on the bench beneath Bobby, all silk and lace. Bobby feels clumsy, feels like his callused fingers are going to wear holes in the delicate slips of fabric Crowley's wearing. "Will you take care of me?" Crowley's asking, breathlessly. "Will you make it good?"  
"You betcha. Anything for you." Bobby's fingers trail around the neckline of the blouse Crowley's wearing, pop another dainty little black button. So slow. It's so good having him like this, all keyed up. Bobby's fingertips stroke through soft hair, slipping beneath sheer black fabric. He pinches one nipple: Crowley arches again, legs wrapping around Bobby's thighs as Bobby kneels above him. It's addictive. The sound he makes, the way he presses himself against the solidity of Bobby's body. He's warm and eager; Bobby wants to lose himself in that warmth, to sink in to Crowley's body and just stay there a while, let him be full and clingy and sweet for as long as possible.  
"Bobby," Crowley pleads, working his hands under Bobby's clothing to reach skin. "I want to feel you."  
Bobby doesn't need telling twice. He jars his elbow on the dash in his hurry to struggle out of his shirt, tugging his T over his head, cap lost somewhere. Crowley tangles his fingers in Bobby's straggling curls, pulls him down for another kiss. Pushes his jeans and underwear down just enough to finally free his dick. It's shockingly decadent; the feel of it sliding against that damp silk Crowley's wearing. Crowley moans into Bobby's mouth and surges up into the contact, rocking his hips so the thick bulge of his cock rubs against Bobby's through the fabric.  
And Bobby can't remember ever having him like this before. On his back. Underbelly exposed, literal and metaphorical, all vulnerable and needy and damned irresistible. "Robert..."  
"Mmm... What's up, darlin'?" No answer, just those dark brows drawing together, lips parting, all painted in shadowy relief by the little overhead light. The windows are pretty near opaque now, condensation running rivulets through the fog. Even if someone were outside they wouldn't see a thing although, boy, would they ever know what was going down. It's kinda a thrill. Makes a guy feel dirty, in the good way. Bobby leans close, breath hot in Crowley's ear. "You gonna let me fuck you? Pull your panties to one side and slide it in?"  
" _God_ yes," Crowley replies, the words caught on a half-moan, still clutching at Bobby like he can't let go. "Put it in me." The words are just filthy, with him dressed like this and laid on his back in a truck in the woods, with a big man pressing over him. "Please," Crowley says, and damn, he pleads so pretty. "Please let me have it, I need it. Haven't I been good?"  
Bobby's mouth feels as dry as if he's just woke after downing a forty of bathtub moonshine. "So good." His voice grates. He swallows, thankful of the semi-darkness. "Do that... _thing_ you do. You know the thing." His voice is low, almost embarrassed and Crowley knows it.  
"I have no idea what you mean." He smirks, wicked, and then Bobby's fingers are sinking easily into unresisting, wet heat. He groans, his dick twitching, beyond his self-control. Oh to have that kind of demonic command over your own body. Crowley sighs, hitching his hips as he tightens the grip of his legs wrapped around Bobby's middle. Greatest lay Bobby's ever had. "Your _hands_ ," Crowley exhales, moving his hips slowly, luxuriously, as if he's savouring the way it makes Bobby's fingers shift inside him. God, it feels like sin. It feels like satin, sleek and clingy around his fingers.  
"What about them?"  
"They're... big." Crowley's biting at his own lips, his eyes heavy-lidded. " _Rough._ "  
"They ain't that bad..." Bobby mutters, even as he knows it's not a complaint, far from it. Crowley's own hands are clutching Bobby's shoulders, every bit as big as Bobby's but... Bobby shudders pleasurably; Crowley's fingers are soft, nails always manicured. "Ya make me sound like a gorilla." He twists, just a little, inside. Drinks in the noise that provokes. "Or do you _like_ a bit of rough?"  
Crowley makes a sound like he's dying, all helpless and choked. "You can't blame me," he manages. "What girl wouldn't?"  
"I don't know about that." Bobby leans closer. Breathes in the scent of him. Crowley's lashes flutter as he slips his fingers out, lines up, rubbing the head of his cock against Crowley's entrance. "I only care about you." Crowley's hips cant, trying to push: Bobby moves with him, withholding, teasing.  
"Please," Crowley says, and this time his voice catches on the word, as if he didn't quite mean to let it out. "Please put it in." He tries to press up against Bobby, press back, get it inside himself.

  
And Bobby wants so badly to give it to him, to push home in one long delicious stroke. He knows this dangerous creature whimpering beneath him can take it; knows from experience. Knows how mind-blowing good it would feel. But something, some crazy masochistic tormenting impulse, makes him press Crowley against the worn seat, circle his hips gently, but not push harder. His hands grip Crowley's wrists. Their lips meet, not even so much a kiss now: rubbing together, filthy, panting. "I like you like this. Beggin' for me." Beneath his coyly lowered lashes, Crowley's eyes glint red and Bobby wonders how long he can get away with this. How long he can even bear it himself, when the King of the Crossroads is so warm and inviting beneath him.  
"You're killing me," Crowley groans, eyes reddening periodically like embers. "I had no idea you were such a sadist." He says the word _sadist_ greedily, as if he's impressed by it, as if it turns him on and if that doesn't just do it for Bobby in turn.  
"Had no idea you'd beg so pretty, sweetheart," he replies. A little flicker of a smile, smug, bows Crowley's lips at that, but Bobby is past playing now. His blood's running far too hot.  
"Please," Crowley simpers. "Please, darling. I need you." He tries to press his mouth to Bobby's - a clumsy kiss, far less elegant than his usual well practiced skill. "I need you to take care of me."  
And Bobby pulls away to see him strain upwards, chasing Bobby's lips. "I'll take care of you so good." Just a little... Bobby nudges his hips forward just a little, hissing a sharp breath in through his teeth as the head of his cock slips immediately into tight heat and Crowley _moans_. The body pressed beneath him bows, arching irresistibly off the seat. And Bobby could swear he's pulling him in, greedy and desperate.  
"You always take care of me," Crowley says, with such sincerity that it almost feels like he's breaking character. His thick, stocking clad legs are wrapped around Bobby's waist - Bobby can feel the slip and slide of them on his skin. "Come on," Crowley growls, his voice gone dangerous with frustration. "You're not going to break me."  
"You sure?" Bobby grabs a handful of lace-clad thigh, feels the pull and ravel of fabric running beneath his grip. Ruts his hips forward, smoothly to the hilt. "I think I could break you, darlin'."

  
Crowley moans expansively at that, his head tipping back to the seat. " _Yesss_ ," he hisses from between gritted teeth, and Bobby isn't sure if it's in response to the full thrust of his dick or the threat of breaking him.  
"Yeah? You like that?" Bobby's head spins: he holds it together, rolling his hips with a control he doesn't really feel. His hands cradle Crowley's ass-cheeks, holding him open, one thumb keeping the soaked silk of those little black panties pulled to the side, the fabric still stretched taut across Crowley's straining cock.  
Crowley whimpers. Pushes his voice into something high and breathy - not quite feminine, but not quite _not_. "I like it. I know I shouldn't, but I can't help it." And Bobby's guts turn somersaults, his hands tightening on yielding softness, hips thrusting faster, shallower. Crowley's skin is hot beneath his lips as Bobby whispers against his throat, "S'OK princess... You got needs, just like everyone. I won't tell."  
"Our secret," Crowley murmurs, the words catching as Bobby's lips on his throat become teeth, softly grazing at first, nothing but the merest hint of possible violence. "You're so good to me. But..." he hiccups a little whimper that comes out almost a sob, trying to angle his hips so Bobby's thrusts hit him just right. "But what if sometimes I wish they could see me. That everyone could know I'm your girl."  
_Jesus_. That lurch again, a little different this time. A twisting pang inside. Bobby closes his eyes, pulls the warm body in his arms even closer. "How'd you do this to me?"  
"What do I do to you? Tell me." Crowley nuzzles against Bobby's face, against the rough scratch of his beard. Drags his lipstick-smudged lips over the bristles, lets them redden his mouth further. He trails kisses over Bobby's cheek, so soft, so uncharacteristically sweet.  
"Make me..." He can't bear how ruined his voice sounds. Shaky and breathless and hoarse with pleasure and goddamn emotion. " _Feel stuff._   Make me want you."  
"You _covet_ ," Crowley says, and his voice burns with approval. The momentary redness in his eyes is more than just a colour - Bobby can feel it in the air between them like the static before thunder. It crackles through him. Works into his bones and Bobby shudders. Rolls his hips, pushing deep and slow.  
He can't deny it. "You put your mark on me. Wrote it right across my skin. Made me yours..." He trails off into a groan.  
"And now you want to make me yours in return. Want to mark me. Let them all see I belong to you," Crowley purrs, and he licks the pink shell of Bobby's ear. It makes Bobby squirm. Makes him lose his rhythm and shove a little harder into Crowley on the next thrust than he means to. But the way Crowley groans at it, the way he shudders... Bobby bites his own lip. Thrusts harder. Tightens his grip in a way he knows might bruise. He imagines it, his fingerprints pressed into the pale curve of Crowley's hips. Moans, in spite of himself. It shouldn't turn him on, but - he slams harder, faster, unrelenting, the need building hot inside him.

  
Crowley's back arches, and he's shoving back onto every thrust. "Oh fuck, fuck, right there. Ohhhhh fuck." He's so flushed that Bobby can see it even in the dimness, the way the redness spreads from his cheeks down to his chest. "Don't you dare stop."  
"Not stoppin'". His breath drags, coming harder as he pins Crowley's hips to the seat, driving into him, controlled and determined. "Wanna feel you lose it."  
"Then make me," he pants. "Make me do it. Just like you want." He deliberately lets his arms fall to the bench by his head, goes passive. A kind of surrender. It's impossible to resist, seeing him this way. Guard down - however much Bobby knows it's just another act, just the role he wants to play tonight, it's a role he wants to play with _Bobby_.  The frantic noise of them fills the close space of the cab: snatched breath, the creak of upholstery, the obscene smack of skin on skin. The thin silk of Crowley's blouse is contoured to his chest with perspiration now. His head lolls with every rut of Bobby's hips, fingers curled loosely and eyes heavy-lidded, dazed with lust, and Bobby feels _drunk_ on him. Slides one hand between them to palm Crowley's thick cock through his knickers.  
Crowley cries out at that touch. "Please," he moans. "I'm so close. You're going to make me come." His eyes are tightly closed, like he can't bear to look at Bobby touching him; his legs tighten around Bobby's waist. The snug delicious clench of him is hot round Bobby's dick, and Bobby grunts, guttural, tightens his fist around Crowley's cock, stroking in time with his thrusts, whispers, "C'mon, gorgeous. Give it up for me."  
And Crowley comes like he can't help himself - though Bobby knows his self-control is usually airtight. He moans, long and loud, and tightens up like he's trying to choke Bobby's cock. Then there's a sudden wetness between them that Bobby's fingers skid through, hot and messy and it's too much. Bobby has no idea how he's held out this long already but now it feels like Crowley's wringing it from him, his whole frame shaking with the violent sweetness of it. Wracked. He lays his weight on the panting body beneath him -Crowley all heavy and limp and purring - and presses in, deep as he can, rides that pulse as it throbs through him, from him.

  
Slowly, Bobby comes to realise that Crowley is shivering under him. He's never known him to be cold, so he presumes this is more of the act - the precious princess stripped down to her underwear in a truck in the middle of the night. He's still clinging, too. Holding tight to Bobby's shoulders, face hidden against his neck. He wants to say it: _You can quit the act now, idiot. Get changed and I'll shout you a drink._ But that awful ache of emotion is still there, like a splinter healed over, and the kiss he presses against Crowley's hair is gentle.  
For a moment they just lie there, and then - "Robert?" Crowley asks, and his voice is somehow tremulous, rough like he's got a sore throat.  
"Yeah?" He can't bring himself to move just yet. His thumbs stroke little circles on the smooth skin of Crowley's lower back.  
"Take me home?"

  
Bobby is unused to quiet, polite requests from this man. _Demon_. Crowley usually _orders. Demands_. Or simply does as he pleases - lord knows he doesn't need Bobby to do anything for him. Can transport himself anywhere he likes with no help required.  
_What, Hell?_ pops into Bobby's head. He opens his mouth, then can't. Takes a deep breath instead, lets it out slow. When he eases them apart, Crowley makes another weird soft noise, a low grumble. His legs lower, kitten heels digging into the upholstery, but his grip on Bobby's shoulders doesn't falter. And Bobby feels all kinds of stupid, wonders why the heck Crowley isn't already redressed in his swanky suit and smirking victoriously down at him like he'd usually be, but he still does it: tips his chin up and brushes another gentle kiss across Crowley's closed eyelids. His lashes flutter. Tense little frown. "C'mon, you." Bobby says quietly. He fishes around for his discarded shirts. Pulls his T back on, but drapes his flannel across Crowley's lap. He's got a run in one fancy stocking and it makes Bobby's chest squeeze. "Let's go get you cleaned up." Crowley fumbles with his blouse weakly, trying to get it to sit right on his shoulders again. Doesn't bother with the skirt that still lies discarded on the truck floor somewhere. Just tugs Bobby's shirt up a bit and hunches down so it's covering as much of him as possible. He's wiping at his mouth, compulsively, rubbing the smudged lipstick away. Bobby reaches out. Awkwardly brushes a lock of hair back from Crowley's forehead. "You OK?" He clears his throat. "No, ah... regrets?"  
Crowley flashes a brief, brilliant smirk at him. "I don't do regrets, darling. You know that. Waste of time."

  
"Aaaand he's back." Bobby rolls his eyes, the tension he hadn't realised he was carrying dropping from his shoulders. He should probably be irritated, but somehow the feeling's translated itself into a warm burst of affection. He turns back to the wheel, one corner of his mouth lifting into a quiet smile. "Make sure you pick up all your frilly stuff. Don't want the boys ribbing me if they find it in the cab."  
Crowley chuckles weakly. "Now that would be a very interesting conversation. Might be worth it just to see what excuses you'd come up with." He's sinking back against the seat. He looks... tired. And Bobby sure knows how _that_ feels.  
"Don't even think about about it, hot shot." He huffs a laugh. Cracks the driver side door to try and clear the fogged windows. "We steamed the place up pretty good. Don't..."  
"Don't what?" Crowley's hands tighten in the softness of Bobby's shirt, like he's scared he's going to be made to give it back. Bobby swallows at the thought of the little black panties that are all Crowley has on under that shirt. How messy they must be. How he's not even bothering to clean himself up.  
He runs a hand over his face. Trails a fingertip through the clearing condensation, idly drawing a wobbly heart. "Don't, yknow... Zap away or whatever." He turns briskly back to the wheel, slams the door shut, not looking at Crowley as he says. "Come back with me? I'll fix us some coffee."  
"Coffee," Crowley repeats, as if this is the first time he's encountered the word. "Yes. That sounds very acceptable." He licks his lips, dry from rubbing away the lipstick.  
"Well. Alright then." Bobby turns the key in the ignition, fighting back a smile. "And you can clean yourself up too. You look downright disreputable."  
Crowley smiles to himself, the secret sort of smile he lets out only when he thinks nobody is looking, and sinks down lower on the seat as the truck starts moving. "Of course. Wouldn't want to embarrass you. I know you're used to spending time with a classier sort of girl, wouldn't want people to get the wrong impression."  
"Damn straight." The trucks tyres rumble over gravel and twigs as Bobby swings it back towards the track. He casts a glance at the dark figure tucked up next to him. His voice is quiet when he says, "You look good, y’know. Like that."  
Crowley's snort of laughter is self-deprecating. "I look ridiculous. It's just a brand of ridiculous that turns you on."  
Bobby lifts one shoulder in a shrug. "Works for me."  
"Yes. Well your tastes are nothing if not predictable."

  
Bobby considers, briefly, asking Crowley if he doesn't have somewhere more important to be. He's an honest-to-god King, doesn't that mean he should be busy with things other than curling up under Bobby's shirt and staring out of the window at the black trees rushing past them in the dark? But then... A 'yes' might mean him disappearing after all. "Predictable don't necessarily mean 'bad'." He says instead. "In this line of work, I've found predictable to be pretty underrated, all told."  
"Hmm," Crowley muses, in a voice that's as soft as Bobby's ever heard it. "Dependable."  
"Yeah." Bobby agrees, quietly. Keeps his eyes, with effort, on the road.

**Author's Note:**

> So we wanted to write some Crowley/Bobby because that ship is hot as fiery Hell and so naturally we went straight into crossdressing roleplay PWP because that's what's missing from this pairing, right? Right? Because cross-dressing Crowley would be so damn fine. Hopefully we even remotely did it justice.
> 
> Smaychel wrote Crowley, TheFierceBeast wrote Bobby.


End file.
